


a love bound by no golden band

by eggosandxmen, starshipaurora



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Autism, Descriptions of gore, Disabled Character, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonspeaking Character, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Self-Harmful Stimming, Sensory Overload, Stimming, autistic characters, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23186530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggosandxmen/pseuds/eggosandxmen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshipaurora/pseuds/starshipaurora
Summary: She’s dead. No ifs or buts about it.When she had first created her plan, it was a backup in her mind- her last resort. Life always got better, according to the array of therapists she had seen, but… here she is. Alone. Not that that’s exactlynew.
Relationships: Miss Argentina | Receptionist & Original Female Character, Miss Argentina | Receptionist & Original Male Character, Original Female Character & Original Male Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. if i only knew!

Presley stands up woozily, balancing herself on a desk. The room she’s woken up in smells of smoke. She’s never seen it before. She can’t be dreaming-- which means it had worked. She jumps up, knowing her heart should be pounding, knowing she should be sweating and breathing fast and knowing she’s doing none of those things. As a last, desperate attempt to make this seem possible, she touches her hand to her head, finding her helmet cracked all the way across. She unclasps her helmet and touches her head again- it’s bloody, too bloody to be possible, too bloody for her to still be alive. 

She’s dead. No ifs or buts about it.

When she had first created her plan, it was a backup in her mind- her last resort. Life always got better, according to the array of therapists she had seen, but… here she is. Alone. Not that that’s exactly  _ new. _

She pushes down the anger and sadness brewing in her gut at the thought of that and stands up all the way to look around. She’d awoke sitting on a chair in front of the large desk she’s balancing herself on, and she moves to a mirror in the back of the room.

Her skin has gone bright pink, because  _ apparently  _ that’s something that happens when you die, and there’s blood gushing down the side of her face, dripping onto her uniform. Her mother would hate that.

A loud bang sounds out from behind her, and all thoughts of her mom disappear from her mind as she whips around to find a woman with a beehive hairdo, smiling at her with far too many teeth, her blood red suit pressed and ironed to a T. There aren’t any doors in the room, as far as Presley can see, so she’s apparently appeared out of precisely nowhere.

“Presley Lind?” the woman says, sounding almost disgusted.

She nods, once.

“My name is Juno, I’m in charge around here. You’re dead. You killed yourself. Here in the Netherworld, that means you have to work,” she rattles on, like it’s a spiel she’s gone through thousands of times. She moves over to her desk and starts flipping through an enormous stack of files. “You’ll be deployed to the backroom until further notice. Do not argue, do not try to be a  _ hero _ , or you will be sent to jail quicker than you can even begin to run, do you understand?”

Something in Presley freezes up as she speaks-- that base instinct that most people tend to ignore, the flight/fight/freeze part of her brain. She chooses freeze, standing there and staring at the floor.

“Do you understand?”   
  
She nods mutely.

Suddenly, she feels a hand grab her face, long polished nails digging into her skin. Her head is tilted up so she’s forced to look at Juno, who’s glaring at her with cold eyes.

“Look at someone when they’re talking to you,” she says sharply. “And  _ talk  _ back.”

“S-s-s- _ sorry _ ,” Presley finally manages to get out, and Juno finally lets go of her.

Juno snaps her fingers and a woman all but falls through the ceiling, standing up shakily as her head ticks against her shoulder. Her hair is stuck straight up and there’s makeup running down her face, her ripped nightgown and electrocution scars (along with a half-disassembled toaster; it looks like she’s used it for parts) making it clear exactly how she died. She can’t seem to stand still— her arms are shaking, and her shoulders keep ticking up.

“This is the electrician,” Juno mutters, waving a dismissing hand at her. “She’ll be getting you situated. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

The woman grabs Presley roughly by the shoulder and pulls her out through a door that  _ certainly _ hadn’t been there five seconds ago, ignoring Presley’s whined protests until they’re down a long corridor, at which point she pulls her into what appears to be a broom closet, switching the light on. She places her toaster on an empty shelf and takes Presley’s face into her hands slowly, looking her over. She wipes some blood off the side of Presley’s face and nods once.

“Okay,” she sighs, staring in a way that suggests that she  _ can’t _ blink. “My name is Joan Ofark. You’re Presley-- Lind?”   
  
“Not-- no.” Presley crosses her arms, feeling the usual shame bubble up as she remembers her family. “No, not Lind.”   
  
Joan sighs. “Well-- fine, then just take my last name.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Names have power down here, anyway. Might be safer to get away from the one you died with. You can take Ofark unless you want to use something else.”   
  
Slightly confused, Presley nods. “O-Okay.”   


Joan looks her over again before pulling her into a tight hug. “There’re too many kids down here.”

Presley hugs her back just as tightly, and when she pulls away, Joan looks almost sadly determined.

“Okay, kid. Now, you stay here for a few days— just around the office— and once you get used to it, you need to get to the backroom. It’s down the hall to the left, okay?”   
  
With that, Joan pulls a screwdriver out of her pocket, opens up a vent in the floor, and climbs down after half-smiling at her in farewell.

Well,  _ now what _ ?


	2. of monsters and men

James Knox is alone. He's alone most days, really. As Miss Argentina's assistant, he's in charge of the backroom: where all newly-dead’s paper files are sent, to be sorted into decaying boxes on towering shelves. The backroom is his domain, and he spends nearly all of his time within it, organizing and reorganizing the literally-endless rows of information on every single person who’s ever died.

He's on a ladder, rearranging boxes on a high shelf, when there’s a knock on the door. He almost falls, but catches himself and looks to the door. It’s Miss Argentina, sticking her head in; she can't quite see him, with how far back he is, but she smiles anyway.

“Hey, James, there’s a new servant arriving soon. She’ll be working with you for a while,” she calls. "That's all. Come and get me if you need anything, cariño."

He nods, and waits until he hears the door close to sigh in frustration. It’s not that he _hates_ any of the people that occasionally spend a few days in the backroom. It’s always temporary, until they get assigned their actual job. But he likes to do _his_ job alone, with no distractions, and with the guarantee that everything will be completed The Correct Way.

Whenever a new servant spends time with him, there’s always the chance that they’ll mess everything up. Or maybe they’ll do the job but they won’t do it Right. Or maybe they’ll ignore the odd, mute boy who’s trying to tell them what to do. That last one has happened more than James wants to remember.

It looks like he won’t have to wait very long before finding out what this new servant is like, because he can hear footsteps approaching the backroom door. He climbs down the ladder and rocks back and forth on his heels.

\--

Presley’s realizing that short-term memory is rapidly becoming an issue. That might be a side effect of her head getting crushed. 

Presley shivers slightly, hand going to the back of her head-- rather than the still-bleeding flesh she knows is there, she finds her helmet, familiar cracks running along it. It’s easier to focus again, and she recalls the directions to the backroom.

Finding herself at the promised door, she slips in, blinking at the sudden darkness. In what little time she had spent down here, there had always been warm, almost orange light above her, along with the clashing voices of hundreds of suicide victims, herself among them.

She pushes that thought away, and blinks, once, before adopting her Proper Society voice, the one her mother had made her practice until she knew how to act with the rich and famous. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?” She cringes at how fake her voice sounds, but continues to wander on. She’s mad, mostly, that she had to go and off herself in her show outfit; the tag is itching and it’s hard to walk properly in her boots.

James’ long, pointed ears prick up at the voice. He makes his way towards the door and pokes his head out into the aisle to look at her. The new servant has pinkish skin and wears a helmet, her uniform red and white. He waves.

Presley blinks at the appearance of the person across from her— they look only a little older than her, a lot more tired, and much warier. They have dark hair tied up in a ponytail, and a yellow collared shirt with a neatly-knotted silver tie. Their expression is blank. She waves back.

“Hi, um, I’m Presley L-- Ofark?”

He momentarily disappears back into the infinite-seeming rows of file boxes, before returning, this time with paper and a pen. He scribbles something down and then shows it to her.

“I am James Knox. I am in charge of the backroom and I will be telling you what to do.”

Presley nods, picking at the nail of her left index finger. “What am I going to be working on?”

Usually, with new servants, James doesn’t tell them to do much. Half of it is because he genuinely feels bad. He remembers his first few days here, and they were far from fun. But truthfully, the other half is because the less he tells them to do, the less things might get messed up. Either way, he simply writes, “Please alphabetize these boxes,” and points to three file boxes on the bottom row of the first aisle.

Presley nods, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of them. They’re a _mess_ , and she can feel James looking at her. Her head twitches against her shoulder against her will. She takes a deep breath (she hadn’t been breathing— strange to remember) and when she turns around, James is gone, thankfully. 

She starts sorting the cards, muttering to herself.

“Bee-da-deep, bee-da-deep-”

Her mom would be screaming _so_ loud right now. Her mom isn’t here, though, so she keeps going.

“Bee-da-deep, bee-da-deep, bee-da- _deep_. I am running mid a road—” It’s almost freeing, to get to do this as much as she wants, and she yells happily as she goes along.

She hears James’ footsteps and shuts up immediately, making herself stop moving. _Ge_ goes before _Gr_. She’s not moving. She’s a good kid. She’s a normal kid. She doesn’t look up when James comes over.

He looks down at her, his hands hanging limp from his wrists. He’d heard some of what she was doing, and he can’t help but quietly mimic her. “Bee-de-deep, bee-de-deep.” He flaps his hands a little.

Presley blinks, cocking her head at him and starting up again. “Bee-da-deep!”  
  
They smile at each other. 

“I am running mid a road as I’m chased through a town, psychotic; there’s a jeering jackal much like my mother crying bee-de-deep, bee-de-deep, you Idle Boy!” She says each line in iambic pentameter, bouncing between each syllable in a way that makes her chest feel full. “Sorry, James.” She forces a laugh. “You can keep working, I’m just singing while I work. It’s, you know, it’s fun.”

He flaps some more while he looks for the piece of paper again. He writes something out and flips the paper to show her. “It is okay. I just came to check on you. You can keep singing. After you are done with that you can take a break here and I will come back to get you. I do not want you getting lost.”

“I won't!” she promises, her heart dropping into her stomach. She could barely remember how to _get here_ , nevermind how to find her way back in a room of infinite proportions. But James just nods with a blank, almost bored expression and wanders off into the endless aisles of shelves again, leaving Presley alone.

Presley chokes down a wave of nausea. If she gets lost, James won’t want her here, and then what will she do? Nothing. She needs this job, she decides, and starts to work again. But the letters start mixing up, and a pounding arrives in her head, and she can’t quite focus anymore. Shit.

“Um, James?” She whispers, cringing when it echos. 

She’s just got to be brave. Asking for help is important, she reasons.

“James?” She stands up and walks towards the aisles. “James, I got lost. I’m sorry. I need help— I didn’t mean to—”

From his spot very, very far away, James’ ears twitch when he hears Presley’s voice. He pauses in his sorting, one hand holding a file and hovering over the box. She sounds... upset? He can’t really tell. But he should go help her. So he starts making his way back to the door, listening close in case she says something again.

“I’m sorry,” Presley says to the seemingly never-ending aisles. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll fix it, I just need time—”

James easily strides through the room, hands grasped together and tucked near his chest. He reaches the door, but is surprised to find that Presley is gone. He can hear her, though, and soon realizes that she’s gotten lost. Immediately, he feels bad for her. It’s only her first day, alone in an unfamiliar, crowded place, and now she’s lost in what is basically an infinite space of identical surroundings. James is used to it by now, but he can imagine how terrifying it must be.

“Bee-de-deep,” he calls softly.

Presley whips around towards the noise and copies it. “Bee-de-deep.”

“Bee-de-deep.”

“Bee-de-deep.”

“Bee-de-deep!” She sees James wave at her from a shelf high up and she smiles. “Hi!”

“Bee-de-deep,” he says again, sliding down the shelf to wave at her and write out a notecard. “It is okay that you got lost. No one except me knows their way around.”

“Thanks,” Presley says shakily, her masking voice slipping away. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

"You do not have to be sorry. It is not your fault. You needed help?"

Presley laughs, because that’s what she’s supposed to do, and then she shakes, even though she’s not supposed to. “This is… overwhelming.”

James nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. "I am sorry. Can I..." he pauses here, flicking the pen in thought, "Help it not be overwhelming?"

Presley’s head twitches again and she shrugs, giving her the appearance of someone glitching. “I don’t know. It’s, you know, it’s fine.”

"You look upset." He tilts his head at her, and his eyebrows furrow with concern.

“Don’t worry,” Presley says, smiling at him again without it reaching her eyes. “I’ll be okay. Which way do we go?”

He takes her by the arm and pulls her back to the start. Without saying another word, she turns and slips out of the backroom.

James stares at the door as it closes, and he frowns. Perhaps he should follow her, make sure she truly is okay... But the thought of leaving the backroom sends a spike of panic through his heart, so he simply turns back to the boxes she’d been alphabetizing and gets back to work.


	3. rise and rise again

There’s a community fridge in the break room of the Netherworld office, which Presley only knows about because Joan had been dragged into fixing it on more than one occasion. 

Joan is the Netherworld’s main electrician. Presley’s only met her twice— once, when she gave her a new last name and a tight hug, muttering something about  _ too many kids down here _ , and the second when she came in to fix the lighting around the building. It felt strange to realize that the woman probably knew her better than her mother.

Privately, Presley wonders what it would be like to have Joan as a mother. She’s sure it would be better than what she left behind.

Anyway: the fridge. It’s filled with stolen and rationed food— chocolates, sandwiches, a seemingly never empty bowl of yellow rice, milkshakes, bruised apples and fresh oranges— and Presley takes a thing or two from it occasionally. It’s not illegal— the food is saved for workers— though she’s always careful to only get stuff when no unknown adults are around. Usually just a yogurt or something along those lines; ghosts don’t exactly need to eat, she discovers, but it still makes her feel much better to do so.

She swings into the backroom one day, orange in one hand and a bag of chocolates in the other. She likes James, wants to see him more, and can’t think of a better excuse than food.

“James?” she yells into the dark. “I got chocolate!”

It takes almost a minute, but soon James emerges from the aisles, his hands held together and tucked into his chest. He tilts his head.

“Do you want some?” she asks, holding the bag out to him. “I got it from the fridge in the break room.”

Cautiously, as if the bag is going to bite him, he reaches into it and pulls out a single chocolate. Then he drops down to the ground (so fast that for a moment, Presley’s afraid he’d fallen) and sits cross-legged. She sits opposite him, descending much more carefully than he had.

By the time she’s seated, James has finished writing something. He shows the paper to her. “Thank you. I have not eaten in years.”

He pulls the paper back and systematically unwraps the chocolate, slowly peeling the glue apart side by side. Presley, meanwhile, stares at him.

“ _ Years? _ ” she asks, eyes wide. He nods, popping the chocolate in his mouth with a small smile. “How did you go that long?”

“You do not need to eat in the Netherworld. And I am busy with work,” he writes. “Sometimes weeks go by and I do not notice.”

He seems so  _ casual  _ about it. She can’t imagine being in this room for literal weeks, organizing for days on end without any breaks at all. How long has he been here, that this kind of thing is normal? That he’s used to it?

“Hey, James?” she asks. He looks up. “Sorry if this is rude, but— how long have you been here? In the Netherworld, I mean.”

His ears twitch as he thinks, flicking the pen back and forth in his hands. “I died in 1934. So, more than fifty years. I have been in charge of the backroom nearly all of that time. Why do you ask?”

“That’s so  _ long _ ,” she says. “And there’s no one working with you?”

“Miss Argentina stops by when she needs something.”

Presley’s only run into Miss Argentina a few times, but she knows James is technically her assistant; and besides the wariness of pretty much all adults that she’d picked up in the weeks she’s been a civil servant, she doesn’t have any problems with the woman. James scribbles down something else and she looks over. 

“And occasionally new servants work here for a few days, like you did. How is your postal job, by the way?”

“It’s fine,” she says. “The bike is really old, but I can manage. I met the mechanic— she’s one of us, a kid. Her name is April. She fixed it for me.”

He nods and then takes another chocolate. He unwraps it exactly the same as he did the first time. As he chews it, he flaps his hands.

“You, uh, you enjoying that?” Small talk has always been a struggle, in Presley’s experience. “I can probably get more for you-- it’s not like it’s really  _ stealing _ , you know, it’s the civil servant’s fridge-- I mean, well, our fridge, I guess.”

He nods at her question, fidgeting with the wrapper and folding it up as small as it can go. Then he writes, “I would love that! Thank you very much,” and gives her a tiny smile.

“That’s great!” Presley smiles back at him. “I’ll— come back, maybe, tomorrow? I have to go back for my graveyard shift.”

He nods again, giggling at the pun, and she hums excitedly as she stands up, pressing the bag of chocolates into his hands and rushing out the door. 


	4. a spark can start, inside your heart

James is fixing up a file box at the front of the room when he starts to lose focus. He blinks a few times and tries to push the feeling away.

Presley, the new servant (and maybe, even, a new friend?) is stopping by for a visit. She’d been assigned her permanent postal job a while ago (she’d already come by to complain about it). But, for reasons James can’t figure out, she likes to stay and talk with him after her shift is over. She’s sitting on a shelf a few feet above him, her legs swinging back and forth.

“How long has it been since you’ve left the office?” she asks suddenly.

He looks up at her, and she leans on her hand like she’s pondering something. 

“A week?” He shakes his head. “Two weeks?” Another shake. “A month?” No. “A  _ year _ ?”

He sets down the papers in his hands and spreads out his arms in a motion Presley translates to, “longer.”

“Two years? It can’t have been that long, James, you must have gone out  _ sometime  _ in two years.”

He shakes his head again. Sighing, he grabs a pen and scribbles something on a spare notecard before handing it to her. “I have not left the building in at least thirty years, most likely more. Most of my time is spent in the backroom. I have no reason to leave.”

“Not going outside at  _ all _ ? What about, like— trees! And— and you know, other buildings, or—“

As she talks, James feels the world spin. He blinks hard, trying to will his focus to return. He sways on his feet.

“James? Are you okay?” Presley asks.

The pen falls to the floor and he stumbles backwards until he falls, barely catching himself on his hands.

“James!”

Presley jumps down from the shelf and kneels beside him, one arm supporting his back. His legs are trembling, and he rubs at his eye with a shaky hand. His breaths come out shallow and weak, no matter how much air he tries to take in.

Presley moves her arms to hold him better. “James, what are you—“

James’ vision blurs and his eyes glaze over. Presley’s arms are wrapped around him almost completely now, and it’s the only thing keeping him sitting upright. His head lolls. He just wants to sleep...

“James?  _ Jamie _ , please—”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “S-S..." His entire body feels so weak, he can’t move. “S’ry...”

And then, without warning, James’ eyes slide shut and his body turns completely still.

“Oh, no— hey, no, Jamie, wake up! Wake u—“

“Nnn,” he groans.

Presley almost cries with relief.

He sits up without any effort at all, and holds the heel of his hand to his temple. He grabs a notecard, squinting like he was just woken up from a very good nap and sloppily writes, “When I was alive, I needed insulin to survive, miniscule amounts at a time. An excess of it caused my blood glucose levels to become low. When I was seventeen, I drew up an entire syringe.”

His story stops there, and he looks down at the floor with a blank expression. Presley can tell what happened next. And she knows that the way you die is the way you're stuck forever, and your body remembers.

She pulls him up. “Come on.”

At his confused expression, she grins. “I’ve got something to show you. Just trust me, okay?”

Down the hall, through the main waiting room, James lets Presley lead him until they're at a door he hasn't touched in decades.

He makes a tiny, frightened noise in his throat.

"It's okay," she says quietly, taking one of his hands in her own. "You don't have to if you really don't want to. I won't make you. But... I really think you'd like this."

He stares at her for a minute, the fingers in his free hand fluttering anxiously. His mind races, and then, before he can change it, he nods.

They exit through a door to reveal the outside world; the sky a harsh, dark red, the roads crumbling. Despite the bleak picture, Presley’s still smiling, kicking at a rock with her boot.

“Over here.” She pulls him over to a dead, wizened old tree, reaching behind it and wheeling out her work bike; rusted, one of the handlebars dangling off its position.  _ P. OFARK  _ is carved carefully on the seat.

“Get on the back.”

The back seat’s clearly meant for mail, more of a basket than anything. Presley smiles at him as he slowly gets on the bike, ears flicking with anxiety. He wraps his arms around her chest from behind.

“Ready?” she asks gently.

“Mhm.”

She starts pedalling and hears a small gasp from behind her. Then she feels James press his face into her back, his grip on her tightening.

“I know it’s probably a little scary, but it’s okay, I’ve got you,” she says, feeling a breeze on her face as she speeds up. She doesn’t go too fast, though. She wants him to see this. “Hey, Jamie? Can you look up? Just for a minute.”

His head lifts off her back.

“I remember you mentioning that you really liked the lamps when you were alive,” she says. “I know these aren’t exactly the same, but...”

She trails off, but James doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring— All the way down the street, the street lamps are lit. They’re gas lamps, so similar to the ones back in London, their flames flickering and creating a comfortable glow that beautifully illuminates the night. Presley rides past them all, one by one, and the light reflects in his eyes, making them sparkle.

It hits him, all at once— the breeze in his hair, the slight creakiness of the old bike, the fire against the darkness, the warmth of the person— the  _ friend  _ he’s clinging to. He’s  _ outside _ . Outside in the Netherworld, not just outside in the office hallway. He’s outside for the first time in an uncountable amount of years, watching the lamps glide by, holding onto the first friend he’s ever had. He’s not hidden away in the backroom anymore.

What he finds most surprising, out of all these things, is that right now, he feels no desire, no  _ need _ , to return to it. Presley genuinely and truly cares about him. She understands him just like he understands her, and neither of them are pressured to hide any aspect of themselves. She’s the reason he’s able to see these brilliant lights.

She’s the reason he  _ wants _ to try and leave the backroom, even if only to be with her.

James can’t help it. He lets out a sob, and then another, and soon he’s crying, his tears blurring the flames together in his vision.

Presley hears him and her shoulders tense. “Jamie? Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you—”

Still sobbing, he buries his head in her back, smiling and laughing quietly. He nods into her jacket so she can feel it. He squeezes her tight, and Presley knows it’s a  _ thank you, thank you, thank you _ .

Presley blinks a few times, trying to get rid of the tears in her own eyes. She smiles softly, and with her heart full, she pedals on.

Eventually, Presley stops them at an old-fashioned movie theatre. The outside sign has random letters strewn on it (ALFRED HIT H O K’S PSYC O), and the entrance doors are broken, cracked glass covering the ground. She holds James’ hands to steady him as he steps off the bike, his legs a little wobbly.

“You okay?” she whispers. There are still tears dripping off his cheeks.

In response, he lunges forward, burying his head in her neck and wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a tight hug.

“Aw, no—“ she laughs, holding him back tightly, one hand cupping his head and the other wrapped securely around his waist. “You’re okay. I’m glad you liked it. Now, come on, my friend Richie runs this place and he said that he had something cool on tonight.”

She takes his hand and they walk inside.


	5. those little slices of death

The backroom is always quiet. In most other parts of the Netherworld, it’s impossible to escape the noise, whether it’s people talking or electricity buzzing or newly-deads crying. But in the backroom, it’s completely silent.

It’s because of the silence that Presley can hear James, clear as day.

“Nnn,” he groans softly, fingers twitching in his sleep. He’s leaning on her, practically using her legs as a pillow— her arm is wrapped around him protectively, her fingers tapping idly against his waist. She clunks her head softly against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. She’s tired, sure, but more than that she’s wary of how dark it is, and how scared James seems to be. She hasn’t known him for very long, but he doesn’t seem to get scared often, and something in Presley’s gut urges her to stay awake to protect him.

There’s no clock-tick to keep time by.

\--

James’ eyebrows furrow, because he’s not in the backroom anymore. He definitely went to sleep there, he remembers curling up close to Presley. But now, he’s on a cobblestone street. The sky is dark and the moon is full, and gas lamps are warmly illuminating the way. Oh. This is London.  _ His  _ London.

“C’mon, cariño, we don’t have all night.”

He turns around to see Misa, standing at the gated entrance to a park. The sign above her says  _ Cherry Tree Park _ . He used to play here every day when he was a kid. He’d run down the path, sit by the pond, climb the trees. It was like a second home.

James steps forward and Misa places a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, and she smiles, and it makes him feel warm inside. It doesn’t quite make sense that she’s here, but his dream-self doesn’t really care, so he walks beside her as they enter the park.

“Hey, Jamie!” Presley’s voice reaches his ears and she comes running down the path, grinning wide. Her skin’s less pink than usual, and the bags under her eyes are mostly gone. Plus she’s  _ smiling,  _ properly— not the small smiles she saves for him, or the fake ones she uses on adults.

She’s not supposed to be here, either, James knows, but he’s so happy she  _ is  _ that he ignores the strange feeling in the back of his mind.

“You ready?” Presley asks, looking past James and instead staring right at Misa, who nods. Presley smiles again, but it’s not a proper smile anymore. The two of them stand, unmoving, for just a second too long.

The odd moment passes, and soon they’re having a quiet walk down the path. James finds himself moving a little slower than usual. He has to work hard to keep up with Misa and Presley.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Misa says.

James tilts his head. It’s not unusual to take a nice walk with your friend and your— well, your boss, is it? Not that hard to believe, out of all the unbelievable things in the world.

“Me neither,” Presley says casually. She waves a hand in dismissal. “It took us way too long to realize.”

Realize what? James scurries to catch up with them. He’s used to Misa striding quick in her heels, but Presley isn’t this fast, surely?

“I’m so glad we took the offer.”

The three of them stop in their tracks. James looks down the path and realizes that there’s someone else there, hidden in the shadows. None of the gas lamps are lit anymore, and his stomach twists nervously.

“Oh! There she is!” Presley runs up to the figure and smiles at her— but that can’t be right, because that’s one of those tiny, genuine smiles that are only for  _ him _ , during the small fleeting moments in the backroom where they truly understand one another.

“I’m so glad we got here on time,” Misa says, stepping forward. “I thought we might have missed you...”

James recognizes the figure now. His head spins.

“...Juno.”

No. No, no, no.

He can’t move. He’s frozen in place and he’s forced to look at Juno as she smiles at him—he’s never seen her smiling before, and it looks  _ wrong _ —and grabs Presley’s arm.

No. Let go of her, let her go—

He can’t speak. His words are caught in his throat, if he even has words at all.

Juno puts a hand on Misa’s shoulder and all three of them are smiling and why are they smiling, they shouldn’t be smiling, this entire thing is wrong.

“Aren’t you so glad you can finally get away from that old office building?” Juno asks.

“Yeah!” Presley nods eagerly. “I was tired of the backroom. It’s such a horrible place.”

“Plus, James is there,” Misa says, and they all make a face before chuckling. Misa laughs, not even looking back at him as she says, “I don’t know why he thinks he could ever be anything close to my  _ son _ .”

James’ heart cracks.

Misa and Presley turn away and follow Juno down the dark path, leaving him stuck there, reaching after them while he sobs. This is all wrong, wrong, wrong—

He collapses on the ground, which is now the floor of the waiting room. He looks around and there’s no one there, not even in the space behind the reception desk. He stumbles over to the window and sticks his head through it, trying to peer down the hallway, but it’s empty.

His ears twitch. “MMMisa?” His voice comes out quiet, barely audible. “P-Prrr-Presley?”

_ They’re gone _ , something says to him.  _ They left, remember? _

“No,” he whispers. They wouldn’t leave. They wouldn’t leave  _ him _ . They wouldn’t say those horrible, horrible things.

_ Oh, but they might. One day, when they get sick and tired of coddling the odd little mute boy, so poor and alone in the backroom— _

“No.” He’s louder this time. “No, no, no, n—”

His voice is cut off, like someone’s choking him. His throat closes up. He wraps his arms around his head, squeezing tight because maybe then the  _ something  _ will finally leave him alone.

“N-N—”

He’s more than his oddness, more than his silence. He’s more than just the boy in the backroom.

_ Are you? _

James’ eyes shoot open and he gasps for air, chest heaving. His hands grasp onto fabric. It’s a shirt, Presley’s shirt. He stares at it, breaths coming too fast.

“Nnn.” The noise comes purely from his throat, simply a needed sensation rather than an attempt at communication. “Nnn.”

His hands act on their own, jerking away from Presley and gripping his hair instead. He tugs his hair, staring vacantly and hyperventilating. He makes noises that are half a whine, half “nnn,” switching back and forth between both sounds but neither satisfy the terrible feeling that’s spread through his entire body.

“Jamie?”   
  
Presley moves away from him slowly, careful to give him space. “Hey. I know you must be scared but— just breathe, okay? Look at me, Jamie, you’re okay. It’s just me, I promise, it’s just me—” 

She makes herself stop repeating the same phrases over and over, praying that he’d respond in some sense, the part of her brain that takes over in a crisis running through worst-case scenarios.

James can hear that Presley’s talking. The words don’t quite process, but it’s still comforting enough that his breathing steadies, just a little. He wraps his hair around his fingers and pulls hard.

“Hey, no—” Presley wrings her hands together, squeezing her eyes tight shut. “Listen, Jamie, I’m gonna touch you, okay? Okay?”

He doesn’t respond, only tugs again.

“Ah, fuck.” Presley takes hold of his wrists gently as she can, pulling them down (not to his lap— she had been told  _ quiet hands _ often enough in her life that she suspects it would set James off worse) and running a careful hand through his hair. “Listen. You can’t hurt yourself. That’s the rules now, okay? You gotta stop.”

James relaxes at the sensation at first, but then her gentle touch starts to simply give him the terrible feeling again. He blindly grabs at his hair, but instead of tugging it, he runs his hand through it, much harder than she had done. “Nnn.”

“Oh, d’you want me to—” Presley presses harder on his hair, now running both her hands through it. “Is that better?”

He hums a little, closing his eyes.

“Okay! Uh. Hey. You don’t have to talk about it, but did you have a bad dream?” Presley shifts closer to him, and for once is glad the backroom is so dark. This whole thing is already overwhelming, without the sensory stress.

James hums again, but doesn’t respond otherwise. He doesn’t really know how to say  _ I had a nightmare that you and my boss left me for the most hated person in the Netherworld because you enjoyed  _ her  _ more than me _ in hums, so he stays quiet.

“Well, whatever happened, I’ll protect you from it. That’s why I’m here!” Presley attempts to smile, despite her worry. 

A warm, happy feeling fills James’ heart. He doesn’t smile, but he reaches up and holds one of Presley’s hands, glancing at her for a few moments, and hopes that it conveys the same thing.

She squeezes it tightly. “You really should get back to sleep, though. A well-organized backroom boy needs his rest!”

His ears twitch and he lets out a laugh-like huff. But... he doesn’t want to go back to sleep. Because what if he has that dream again? What if, this time, Misa and Presley stay behind to spit more cruel things at him before walking away?

Presley notices him freeze up and keeps running her hands through his hair. “Or… we could, uh, we could go steal chocolate from Miss Argentina?”

His ears perk up. “Mhm, mhm,” he hums, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Maybe the vodka, too?” Presley teases, helping him up. “Just take the whole fridge while we’re at it?”

He nods excitedly.

“Alright then. You can be Robin Hood for tonight.” She takes his hand and pulls him out the backroom’s front entrance. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who that is, Knox, he’s been around for as long as— I don’t know. King Arthur. Santa Claus. God, maybe.”

She giggles a little. James huffs out another laugh and follows her, and already the nightmare is fading from his mind.


	6. (how i loathe them)

Presley’s wearing a dress. This is strange all on its own— where’s her jacket, the tags ripped off carefully by Jane and a patch sewn over the hole on the right shoulder? On that note, where are her long-scratched-to-pieces boots? 

On that note, where the  _ fuck _ is Jamie?

She’s in… her old bedroom, it looks like. The entire place is pristine, not a hair out of place. Her bed is queen-sized and has multiple blankets. There are loud voices coming from outside— must be a party. Must be… her parents, she thinks, in a haze. Had the last few months or days or years been just a dream?   
  
Someone screams her name. “Pres! Get down here!”

Her mom. Presley messes with the too-thin straps of her dress, hating the way they make her skin crawl. If it all had really been a dream, at least she had gotten to be comfortable throughout it.

She opens the door to her room and is at once blinded by harsh light and dozens of faces she knows don’t really see her.

She aches, all at once, for the backroom. The worn old blanket she and Jamie had to share and the constant darkness. Mostly she just misses  _ him _ — the fleeting hand her mother puts on her back isn’t anything like his hugs, and for a second Presley recalls how terrifyingly lonely she had been in life. Not much else had gotten better— really, with everything going on, it had gotten worse— but at least she always had Jamie.

She can’t make out the faces of the people talking to her; she can’t even lift her head. Everytime she tries, some unseen force forces her back down, until she’s walking like a prisoner on death row. She flinches as people hold her face and grasp her dress and touch her hair.

She’s not a prize to be shown off, and they never saw that, and this is why she ended up in the Netherworld in the first place (if she ever  _ did _ — her memories feel like they’re fading, until she’s barely got a grasp on Jamie’s face. He had— dark hair, and pointy ears, and—

Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ —

Someone grabs her face and has her look up for the first time— it’s her mother, her teeth too sharp, her smile too wide. She tries to pull away, but her mother just holds her tighter, dragging her out of the center of the party.

“ _ Goddammit _ , Presley. You need to be  _ polite _ — what the fuck did you do to your dress? Huh? Can you not deal with the straps? You’ve always been too sensitive—” Her mom pulls at the left strap of Presley’s dress and lets go, the stinging on her shoulder making her whine. 

Presley’s mom almost snarls in response, letting go of her face and waving her off threateningly. “Go to your room right now. I’m not dealing with this tonight. Why do you always have to ruin everything?”   
  
All at once, Presley feels someone— something— grabbing onto the back of her dress, whispers of the dead (the dead, herself among them) surrounding her. It’s like a portal opens in her house, and everything warps into horrible, unknowable  _ nothingness _ .

Presley screams, and she’s not sure if she’s even making a sound.

Presley  _ screams _ , startling up and shaking in the familiar quietness of the darkroom. Jamie shifts in his sleep behind her— and there he is, wholly and totally real. She almost cries.

Instead, she tries her best to get herself back on his lap without waking him up, which proves tougher than she first assumed. James’ eyes open, glowing slightly so she can see them clearly in the dark. He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“H-hey, James,” she says, trying for a smile. “I’m okay. Let’s just— go back to sleep, yeah?” 

“No,” he says firmly.

Presley wraps her arms around his torso, putting her head on his lap. “I really think we should, though.”

“No,” he repeats. His voice gets softer. “B-Bad dream?”

“No. I- I mean- not really. I’m okay.” She pauses. “Are  _ you _ okay?”

He nods quickly, then points to her and says, “Not okay.”

“You’re a  _ jerk _ ,” she mutters, rolling over to stare reproachfully at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”   
  
(I don’t want to be  _ selfish _ , she thinks to herself, and pushes that thought away.)

“Sure?” he asks. “Y-You can.”

“I’m sure. Just… don’t go too far, okay?”

“Never,” he promises, and kisses her forehead. 

She does it back, smiling. “You know, I was half joking when I decided to do that, but I love you.”

James’ ears stand up almost vertical, he’s so shocked. His wide eyes glow bright.

“I’m gonna say it again just to watch you do that—” Presley giggles. “But, really. I love you so much.”

He flaps his hands softly. “Mmme too.” He smiles back. “L-Love you.”

Presley pulls him into a hug, nuzzling into his shoulder, the remnants of her nightmare already slipping off.


	7. but they never escape

Presley’s watch doesn’t really work right. She usually runs time based purely on instinct, but either she’s slow today or it just isn’t working, because she pedals into her parking spot two hours behind schedule.

She doesn’t go towards the office, even though she had been told in no uncertain terms to report being late to Miss Argentina. She just wants to get  _ home. _

As she takes a shortcut through an alley, she feels a large hand grab her around the mouth and pull her off her feet, lifting a cloth over her nose.

\--

When she wakes up, head spinning, she’s tied by her arms to a chair, her helmet and jacket missing and her feet bare. She hears the clicking of heels approaching and screws her eyes shut against the blinding light of the room.

The heels stop as the door swings open, and Presley refuses to open her eyes, breathing in and out shakily on instinct alone.

The person grabs her by the roots of her hair and forces her to look up, fingers digging into the many wounds along Presley’s head. She opens her eyes to find Juno, flanked by two nasty-looking men. She rocks backward in her chair as the man on the right smiles in a way that makes her feel like some form of animal being prepped for slaughter. 

“Presley Lind, captured henceforth for failing to report a late delivery. Punishment: Internment in the Netherworld Jail for a yet undetermined sentence.” Juno reads off a slip of paper and throws it aside. Presley flinches when Juno puts a hand on her face (much too reminiscent of her first day in the Netherworld), looking at her with contempt clear in her eyes.

“Do what you like to her, just keep her in one piece, understand?”

The men both nod and, with that, Juno walks out, slamming the door behind her. There’s no other sound.

“D-d-don’t  _ touch _ me,” Presley spits, and the man on the left rolls his eyes.

It takes approximately three minutes for her to black out.

\--

When she wakes up for the second time, the first thing she properly registers is mind-numbing pain; the sort that’s confined to one particular part of her body but you can’t just hide from. In her case, it’s her hands; she can’t really move her neck, but she can feel her fingers bent  _ wrong _ , the bones cracking horrifically when she attempts to move them.

She’s strung up, that much is obvious, hanging on chains by her wrists. The pain is pulsing, and she feels the edges of a meltdown arriving. It hurts  _ so fucking bad _ —

She snarls as loud as she can in the stupid echoing silent room and swings herself a little, the pain of it at least a change of pace. No one comes in. Nothing even moves.

\--

By the fifth hour of this, she’s moved on to begging.

“Hey! Goddammit! I know there are people here! Lemme go! _ Please! _ ” Her voice breaks on the last word, and she feels tears starting up again, sobs echoing against the wall. “What did I  _ do _ ?”

\--

Misa keeps her eyes firmly on her desk while Juno speaks, refusing to let her hands shake. She’s always hated filling out the jail reports more than any other part of her job; hated having to make up an excuse to get Jamie to find her the names of the poor victims (she was hellbent on keeping the nastier sides of the Netherworld as far from him as possible), hated having to listen to Juno be so callous about  _ torture _ , hated when the victims came back shaking. Sure, she has those nice football boys doing their best to help the prisoners, but it isn’t much. It certainly isn’t  _ enough _ .

Misa shakes herself out of her thoughts, peering harder at the report. Juno, in response to her looking down, grabs her chin with two of her fingers, tilting her head up so Misa was forced to make eye contact with a small cry, staring venomously. She doesn’t pull away— she had tried that, many times— so she just keeps her hands on the desk and prays no one else is currently in the room in a place she can’t look.

James had been sitting at his desk behind his computer (that he rarely uses; hasn't used it in thirty years, actually) when Juno walked up to the reception window. The one time he braves leaving the backroom and  _ she's _ here, he thinks bitterly. He instinctively hid behind the monitor at the angry look on her face, but he can still hear the conversation happening between her and Misa.

“It was the girl who runs the paper routes. Don’t remember the name.” Juno rolls her eyes. “Pink skin. Her hair looks like she cut it herself.”   
  
Misa’s blood— if it still flows— runs cold. “Presley Ofark?”

James’ ears twitch and he bites down on his fingertips at the mention of his best friend’s name. Presley is with Juno. Worse than that—  _ Presley was taken by Juno. _   
  
“Sure, sure. Whatever her name is. She’ll be in for a few weeks. Broken hands. When she gets back, I’ll send her to you. She’s to begin work again immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Misa sighs, writing Presley’s name down shakily. “I’ll get this report in to Beth right away.”   
  
When Juno sweeps off, Misa finds herself face-to-face with her sort-of-son, and she swallows nervously. “Hi, Jamie.”

He hurriedly scribbles something on a piece of scrap paper. “We need to go and help Presley.” He flaps his hands anxiously.

“We  _ can’t _ ,” she says softly. “She’s stuck, cariño. Even I can’t get where she is.”

“We can,” James argues. After a few seconds, he adds, “Try.”

“I’m not letting you go near there. If you get caught, she’ll take you too. I can’t lose you both in one fell swoop, you understand?” She’s whispering, careful that no one else can hear her, and reaches out to put her hand on top of James’. “I know you want to help, but all we can do is be here when she gets home.”

He shakes his head furiously. “It is better to try than to wait.”

“You’re really not going to let go of this, are you?”

“No.” James says it out loud, in a whisper that’s barely audible. “P-Pres is— hurting.”

Misa sighs, standing up slowly and grabbing her (stubborn, hard-headed, kinder-than-he-should-be) son by the hand, pulling him quickly into the break room. Beth and Joan are fast asleep on the ground and she makes sure not to disturb them, whispering as fast as she can.

“I will take you there. But you are not allowed to leave my sight, and if it comes down to leaving me there or getting taken, you  _ leave me _ , do you understand?”

\--

At some point, someone in a red jersey comes in with a ladder and climbs up to where Presley’s hanging, lifting her head up gently with one hand to pour something (she thinks maybe gatorade?) into her mouth. “Sorry, kiddo, this is all I could swing. We’re working on it.”   
  
It’s one of the football players, she realizes— this close, she can see that he can’t be much older than she is, goofy smile lighting his face. “I’m Samuel. We’re with Argentina. Listen, I don’t have much time. You’re gonna be here for about five weeks. We’ll help when we can.”

Presley nods, swallowing the drink and coughing. “Thank you. Fruit punch?”

“Best flavor in the business, baby!” Samuel slid back down the ladder, doing finger guns at her. “Get some sleep if you can. One of my friends will get you something in the morning.” 

\--

Misa opens the jail's door and it creaks. James steps a little closer to her as they enter the cold building. The lobby is large and gray and soul-crushing, with no decorations except a plant on the desk in the back. It's absolutely silent, save for the person at the desk, who doesn't look up when they walk in. She’s got lipstick on and wears a ripped dress over her ridiculously pale skin; there’s blood coating her hair and face, though it doesn’t look to be her own.

As James trails behind Misa, his eyes wander around the room. It's unsettling how  _ nice _ it looks. Modern and sleek and so unlike every other part of the Netherworld. Misa stops in front of the desk and he hides behind her. 

"Name?" the woman at the desk says, not looking up from her computer. James notes, annoyed, that it's much nicer than the ones at the office.

"Miss Argentina."

The woman at the desk looks up in surprise, and Misa smiles at her. “Hey, Sara. Long time no see.”

“Jesus  _ Christ.”  _ the woman— Sara— stands up and scans the both of them, hands fidgeting with the cross around her neck. “You two can’t be here. This is breaking every rule in the handbook— listen, if it’s about the kid that just got here, Sam is helping her, I promise.”

“Actually,” Misa says, scrawling something on a piece of paper, “as the defacto second-in-command of the Netherworld, I’m completely allowed to be here. James is my assistant, so he is, too.”

Sara smiles, almost mischievously, letting go of her necklace to run a hand through her hair, whistling appreciatively. “Argentina, you never cease to amaze me.”

“It’s part of my job,” Misa laughs. “Now. Have you got the keys?”

“God, no. But I happen to be pretty close with one of the guards.” Sara stands up, motioning for them to follow her.

They walk through the narrow halls that have the exact same feeling as the lobby. The lights here don't flicker. No doors are slightly off their hinges. It looks pristine and perfect, so unlike their office and the back room. At the very least, back at work they had their own things— marks Beth makes on her desk every time someone remembers their birthday, pictures taped securely to computer monitors and behind files, carefully collected chocolates in a jar on Misa’s desk.

Misa holds James closer.

As they walk through the completely identical hallways, James feels his legs begin to shake. His vision blurs a little, and the gray wall blends into the equally-gray floor. He makes a quiet noise in his throat, but keeps walking. He needs to get to Pres.

They stop in front of a door. James' head spins as Sara mutters something to the guard in front of the door; he pulls out a ring of keys and sticks one in the lock, swinging it open.

As soon as he hears the buzz of the electronic lock, James stumbles into the room. It's dark, but he can see a figure, chained up to the wall by their wrists.

"Pres." The word comes out of him in a sob. She almost— whines, maybe?— at him, weak as she is.

He can't reach her wrists, but Misa rushes over and unties them. Presley falls into his arms and he holds her close, tapping his fingers gently on her shoulder in a stim. His vision is spotty and dark spots are starting to blossom in his view, but he doesn't want to look away.

"James, you're shaking," Misa says softly. "Let me take her."

He shakes his head and weakly tries to tighten his grip on Presley. Her fingers are bent wrong, she looks in such a horrible shape. He's not going to let her go. His legs give out but he still doesn't let her go, gently lowering her to the ground with him.

"Jamie, cariño, please let go," Misa's saying, and she sounds just as upset as he is, but it doesn't register. All that he processes is her kneeling down and reaching for him, she's reaching for Pres she's trying to take her away he can't let go she's going to  _ take her— _

James lets out a scream and curls around Pres like a shield, pressing them both against the wall despite his own trembling body. Presley cries out again, loudly, and holds him back. Misa stands up in shock. The scream echoes off the walls as he goes limp.

Misa waits. A few moments later, James' eyes open, looking vacant. He blinks repeatedly until the room comes into focus again, and with his usual strength returned, he gathers Pres in his arms and glares a determined look at Misa.

Noises sound from outside and Presley’s entire body seizes up, grabbing at James’ hair. She’s quite obviously non-verbal, but there’s so clearly a threat on the way that it’s easy to communicate without words.

All three servants can clearly hear Sara speaking— or maybe pleading— to someone outside the door, and then a crash as she’s pushed aside and the door is pulled open.

James scrambles to stand upright, supporting Presley as he steadies himself against the wall. Presley wobbles but stands with her back straight, chin up even as she wipes away tears. He pushes himself off the wall and wraps an arm around her waist to remind her that he's there. 

Misa moves to stand in front of them as the people enter the room; Juno and two big men. Presley whimpers a little and leans closer to James, putting her head in the crook of his neck. 

“Martinez. What the fuck are you doing here?” Juno is speaking dangerously softly, and Misa twists her hands together but doesn’t break eye contact.

“My assistant wanted to see Presley. I have permission to be here, as your receptionist, and as my assistant, he’s got those same privileges.” Misa pulls them both behind her, covering them with her arms. Presley clings tightly to her. “We’ve done nothing wrong. All Presley did was go home after a late night. We’re taking her home.”

James nods. He glares at Juno, the adrenaline pumping through him making all his terror disappear. His mind works fast. He sees Juno, a few steps away from the door, and the two men have moved into the corner opposite the servants. James ducks under Misa’s arm and steps in front of her, reaching over to take both Presley and Misa’s hands in his own.

Juno looks angry. It makes his blood boil, the fact that she’s  _ angry  _ at them for wanting to take his best friend back where she  _ belongs _ . This is one of the times where he wants to be able to speak more than a few words at a time. He wants to scream at Juno for hours about all the pain she’s caused. But instead, he does the next best thing. He grips their hands tight (Presley can’t quite squeeze back, but she  _ tries _ ), looks Juno dead in the eyes, and yells, “ _ FUCK YOU! _ ”

Presley actually laughs, which makes it worth it straight out, and with a sudden burst of energy she sticks her tongue out at Juno before starting to run, dragging James (who, in turn, drags Misa) down the halls and skidding out the door. Sara, back at her desk, throws them a thumbs up and hits a button, slamming a metal door down from the hallway they had come from. 

Apparently, Presley’s legs work fine, because they run and run (and  _ run _ ) until they find the office building, Misa all but shoving them both through the door and into the backroom before picking them up, one after the other, and hugging them tightly.

James hugs her back, one arm around Presley, and Presley grabs them both back like she wasn’t planning on ever letting either of them go, laughing tearily. When Misa lets them go, James immediately wraps his arms around Presley’s shoulders and buries his head in her neck, almost knocking her over with the force of it. He’s making happy whining noises in his throat, squeezing her tight.

“Juno’s gonna kill us,” Misa says.

“We’re already dead!” Presley replies through a laugh, before that turns into soft sobbing, and then loud sobbing, shaking in Jamie’s arms. “I thought— I was s-so scared—“

He nods as he starts crying, holding her even tighter. 

“I didn’t-- mean-- t’--” Presley stops speaking, grabbing at him like a lifeline. “We’re-- okay. We’re okay, Jamie, you’re fine.”

“Nnn—” He blinks hard. “Y-Y’re n-not.”

“I am  _ now _ ,” she says. “I promise.” She wiggles her fingers at him. “See?”

He huffs out a laugh and wiggles his fingers back before tangling their hands together and kissing her forehead. “Mmm— Missed. You.”

“You’re a dweeb,” Presley replies, giggling. He sticks his tongue out at her. “Look, you’re proving my point!”

He laughs and hugs her again. Gently, he takes her hand and after hugging Misa one last time, leads Presley to the backroom. When they get there, he heads right for their blanket pile, sitting down and smiling up at her.

“You’re-- tha-- thank you.” She takes one of the blankets, sighing.

James shifts around so they’re both under the same blanket, and letting her rest her head on his shoulder, arms wrapped around her. He hums happily.

“Well, this ended way better than I thought it would.”

“Mhm.” He runs a hand through her hair.

“I was really freaked out. And lonely.”

“‘M s’ry.”

“It wasn’t  _ you _ , nerd,” Presley replies, glancing up at him. “You’re the one that saved me.”

He doesn’t respond, only clings tighter to her.

“Yeah, this is-- this is a good ending to all that, I think.” Presley wraps herself tighter around him and closes her eyes. He nods as his eyes start to flutter shut.

They both fall asleep in the quiet of the backroom, safe in each other’s warmth.


End file.
